


On His Knees

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron arranges ritualised combat between Onslaught and Motormaster.</p><p>This happens between 'Taking One for the Team' and 'Attention'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On His Knees

"Why here?" Motormaster glanced around at the high, rocky walls and stringy vegetation. On a far ridge, the Constructicons were setting up a throne. Megatron stood close by, Starscream at his heel. The Air Commander's arms were crossed, and he wore an expression of smug anticipation.

"Natural arena," Onslaught replied. "Extinct volcano. It appeals to them."

Motormaster turned away, fists clenched. "I wasn't asking you."

"Save it for the fight," Rumble commented. "Hand over your ammo, both of you."

* * *

"I'm gonna pound you to slag," Motormaster snarled. "I'm gonna rip out your engine block and grind your fuel pump into the dirt. I'm gonna-"

"Cease talking and start fighting?" Onslaught asked. They circled each other on the crater floor. Up on the ridge, Megatron sat enthroned, glaring at them over the massed ranks of the Decepticon forces. Starscream stood beside him, rocking back and forth on his thrusters, hands clasped at the small of his back.

"You rusted piece of slag," Motormaster snarled. He charged and Onslaught ducked, the massive fist passing straight over him. Onslaught kicked out, catching Motormaster on the shin, but the Stunticon turned the fall into a graceful transformation, wheels carving a circle in the gritty earth.

"No call for insults," Onslaught said. "This isn't a grudge match."

"Wanna bet?" Motormaster stayed in alt mode, frustration in the idling growl of his engine. Behind him, Megatron shifted on the throne, chin in hand. Starscream said something, inaudible at this distance. Megatron shook his head, frowning.

"You pick the odds," Onslaught said. Motormaster's wheels spun, another charge, but Onslaught was ready; a quick transformation, a rippling crush of bumper against bumper, and Onslaught flipped up, reverting to root mode. No flying, no weapons, no forcefields; ground-based hand-to-hand, Megatron's rules. Onslaught let the crash carry him and landed, ankles jarring, on the roof of Motormaster's trailer. He lunged forward, gripping the exhaust pipe and squeezing. Motormaster rolled, a shifting mass of panels and road-worn rubber.

A glimpse of dark cables, of twisted wiring, and Motormaster's robot form emerged. Onslaught landed on his back in a cloud of dust. He kicked out, his feet against Motormaster's abdominal plating. But there were hands on his shoulders, gripping, and the momentum carried him up and over, rolling with Motormaster in the dirt of the crater floor.

Motormaster was quick, strong; brute force propelled by aggression. A world of hate balled in each fist, optics blazing with a fury to match the roar of his vocaliser. Onslaught fought in silence, meeting impulse with calculation, heat with cold, blocking and striking and rolling. Grit in his joints, small stones grating, crushed between his gears. A dark scribble formed on the ground, twisting flow of hydraulic fluid and motor oil.

They came to a halt, his arm around Motormaster's throat, chassis tight against the Stunticon’s back. His heat sinks activated, a deafening roar of fans, a rush of coolant. A grunt of pain as Motormaster reached behind himself and grabbed Onslaught’s turret guns, twisting the barrels.

"Ugh. Doesn't have to be like this." Onslaught lodged a knee in the small of his back and pushed. Motormaster hissed steam, hot and cloying.

"Slag you!"

Onslaught groaned as the two barrels touched, the metal crumpling.

"Think you're so fraggin' amazing," Motormaster growled. "You're obsolete. You an' your pack of glitches. Freaks, the lot of you." Metal screamed, and a shower of warnings cascaded through Onslaught's sensor net, lighting up his HUD. "I'll show Megatron-"

Onslaught heaved, lifting Motormaster - briefly - off his feet. As the Stunticon slammed back to Earth, Onslaught used the momentum to bury his fingers in Motormaster's throat. Cables slithered, oil-slick and crackling with charge; Onslaught thrust in, wrapping his fist around Motormaster's vocaliser.

"You'll show him what?" he whispered, his battle mask slicing through the weakened metal of the Stunicon's cowl to grate against his cheek. "That you're stronger than me? That you're better?" He tightened his grip. A dribble of energon crawled along his wrist from where his plating bit into Motormaster's lip. "You don't get it, do you?"

Motormaster growled, his vocaliser thrumming, hot and crisp with static. "Nothing to get," he rumbled. Onslaught rode a tight wave of agony as his left canon barrel tumbled to the ground. Motormaster's fingers wriggled blind, digging a new purchase in the tower mount.

"But there is," Onslaught hissed. He scraped his battle mask across Motormaster's audio receiver. The Stunticon screeched, pressing back against Onslaught's knee, trying to shift their centre of gravity.

"Slagging rusted pile of junk!" Motormaster roared. He heaved, but Onslaught held him firm. His vocaliser splintered, fragile circuits falling away through Onslaught's fingers. His scream erupted as a strong vibration, virtually soundless, along Onslaught's arm, shuddering through his hydraulics.

"Insolent glitch," Onslaught snarled. "Don't you see them up there. Look." He slammed his face into the side of Motormaster's head. "Look!" Starscream standing smug and proud, haloed in the dying sun. Megatron intense and still, glowering over the barrel of his fusion canon. "Don't you dare think this is about you." Onslaught released the fragments of vocaliser and gripped a handful of cables, pulling them taut. Motormaster's head jerked back, his optics flickering.

“Who made you?” Onslaught pressed. “Think about it. Who brought me back, gave me a new body? Who ordered us to fight, and who needs to prove himself? It’s not about us… It never is. It’s about _them_.”

The pressure on his tower mounting decreased. Motormaster wasn't stupid. Blunt, impulsive, arrogant, but far from unintelligent.

“I ruled Kaon," Onslaught whispered, over the creak of metal fatigue. "Back in the Golden Age, when you were just a glimmer in Vector Sigma's subroutines. I watched them rise, in ashes and flame from the very pit. And if there's one thing I learnt, it's this: it's _always_ about them."

A whine of static, brief but loud; it was as much of a concession as he was ever going to get. Then a flash of pain as Motormaster heaved on his gun turret, a squeal of human-made bolts tearing free. He reeled, his battle mask crumpling from the impact of Motormaster's fist, as the truck somehow turned, lips contorted in a soundless snarl.

Then a burst of molten agony. Motormaster’s fingers around his throat, squeezing, crushing, forcing him down. His gun turret dangled, clanging against his back, fluids dribbling from a dozen severed cables. He swung a punch and Motormaster caught his wrist, yanking it high above his head. His shoulder bearings screamed.

“ _Down!_ ” The word was a hiss of coolant steam, forged by a twist of glossa. Motormaster glared, engine roaring, and tightened his grip. Onslaught crumpled, slow as the steady separation of his shoulder cogs. His right knee hit the dirt. A dust cloud rose, spiralling on the evening breeze.

Motormaster increased the pressure; plating split and cable walls collapsed. Onslaught’s denta sparked, gritted, his visor crackling, and his vision fragmented into a thousand shards of purple and grey. His left foot scraped against the hard-packed earth, cutting a channel as his armour buckled.

He fought against the cry building in his vocaliser, the electric howl of pain and rage. His left knee crashed to the ground, and his processor jarred, his thoughts spiralling around the one terrible certainty: it was unthinkable that Motormaster could lose.

A shudder wracked his circuits and his engine stalled. His systems prepared to power down.

In his peripheral vision, Starscream made a gesture, terse and indignant. Scowling, he transformed and shot off into the darkening sky. On his throne, Megatron smiled. He inclined his head, slowly, red optics blazing.

Motormaster let go.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Versus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/408763) by [naboru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naboru/pseuds/naboru)




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